


Falling For Someone (Long Gone)

by goldenzingy46



Series: Tomarry Works [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, And His Name Is Volde, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Explicit Language, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Himbo Harry Potter, Humor, Jealous Tom Riddle, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Misunderstandings, Pining Tom Riddle, Serial Killers, The fact that this is angst is balanced out by the fact that Tom monologues to his cat, Tom Riddle Has A Pet Cat, Tom Riddle Needs a Hug, Undercover as Married, Undercover as a Couple, Wedding Planning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29024655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46
Summary: In a world where Harry Potter attended school with Tom Riddle, he went on to become a famous private detective. And when he needs to fake a relationship for a case......he asks celebrity sports player, Ginny Weasley, to be his bride, and Tom Riddle to be his best man.(And then he forgets to tell Tom it's fake. Not stonks at all, Harry.)
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Tomarry Works [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091711
Comments: 56
Kudos: 103





	1. Tom Riddle And The Fortress Of Unsaid Words And Smothered Feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jazz n sadzz but razz (jazz_keeps_that_sadzz_away)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazz_keeps_that_sadzz_away/gifts).



> This fic SHOULD be nine chapters and 20k. SHOULD.

** The Wedding Killer **

The Wedding Killer, as they have been dubbed, has killed three couples and left one heartbroken and alone, mere minutes before the vows could be exchanged. In a fit of desperation, the surviving groom, Neville Longbottom, called twenty-year-old internet sensation Harry Potter, a private and extremely expensive detective, to investigate the deaths and to avenge the cooling corpse of his bride.

Mr. Potter has declined to comment on the matter, but has recently been seen with international sports star Ginny Weasley… _(More on page three)_

***

Tom Riddle had lived a wonderful life so far. An orphan attending the exclusive Hogwarts Boarding School, meeting his best and dearest friend Harry Potter, and yet it somehow led up to this point.

He was relaxing in bed, enjoying whatever dream he had and immediately forgot upon waking, and being _warm_. Volde was curled on top of him, purring pleasantly, the bastard of a cat all too happy to soak up his body heat as Tom nuzzled into his soft back.

That was when piano blared right into his ear, making both inhabitants of the bed jump.

" _All around me are familiar faces—"_

"Christ Almighty—"

" _Worn out faces—”_

“Shut up!”

“ _Worn out places—"_

Tom seized his phone, eyes wide with the raw _fear_ that came from a sphinx cat with too sharp claws hiding from an obnoxious ringtone, (why he had decided to set it to Mad World he had yet to figure out) and, blinking against the late morning light, he swiped to accept the call, finally silencing the beast.

 _“Tom?”_ Harry asked, a faint stream of laughter from someone unknown coming through the speakers.

“Hi, Harry,” Tom responded. “Just woke up.”

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm down his racing heart. Volde looked similarly shocked, pawing at his face as he wiggled around on the bed.

" _Tom,_ ” Harry slurred.

"Christ," Tom cursed again. “It’s only eleven AM.”

 _“Whoopsie, sorry for waking you.”_ Harry was definitely drunk. “ _Up for coming over?”_

Tom blinked. “You could’ve texted, but sure. I’ll be there in an hour.”

_“See you then.”_

“Sober up, first!”

“I’m only _slightly_ tipsy, Tom.”

The overly offended voice with the slur nearly left Tom in tears.

And that was that.

Tom rolled out of bed, checking the time and going to get dressed.

God. Drunk at eleven in the _morning_.

“ _Meow.”_

Volde said this with the firm insistence only a cat could have. It was also the firm insistence that easily implied _Has father abandoned me? Left me to starve? I simply cannot thrive in this household._

If Volde could talk, he would be a Victorian child for sure.

(Tom gave him extra food as an apology for abandoning him.)

“Meow?” It was a plaintive cry, and it nearly worked.

Tom spared a single glance behind him before shrugging on his coat and closing the door.

God, there had better not be traffic.

***

It was always nice having a key to your drunk friend’s flat.

"Harry?” Tom called. “You asked me to come?”

Harry happily waved Tom over to the sofa, tugging his arm until he sat beside him.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Harry said. “But first – Ginny, can you go get more champagne?”

Ginny (who had, apparently, been here the whole time and _let_ Harry get drunk) looked vaguely amused by Tom's predicament with a lap full of Harry, nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Okay, then,” Tom said. “Off my lap.”

Harry flopped sideways and cuddled to the armchair like a cat (Volde was probably Harry’s cat form, right?).

“Do you want to hear a secret?” Harry whispered, the half-drunk champagne bubbling from the champagne flute, hanging loosely in his free hand. “I’m going to propose to Ginny.”

Tom stilled. “ _What?”_

“We’re going to that restaurant, the one that she loves, the one where the paparazzi are.” Harry continued.

"You're—" Tom's brain short circuited, trying to desperately connect the dots. He was sure that Ginny was a lesbian— that Harry—

_What._

"Congratulations," he murmured, voice laced with confusion.

"Thanks," Harry laughed, accepting the champagne top-up as Ginny returned.

Ginny smiled at him, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. “I suppose Harry has told you our little secret, then?”

“…Proposing?”

“Yep!” she said, popping the ‘p’. “Also, if you want more champagne, get it yourself.”

She paused. “ _Both_ of you.”

Harry waved the glass at her. “I really don’t want to be drunk when I’m pr’psing to you.”

Ginny and Tom winced in unison.

“Perhaps you should drink a bit of water before you propose to me,” Ginny said. “I would never be seen in the company of a drunkard.”

“You are _rude,_ and I don’t know why I’m marrying you.”

Ginny ruffled his hair. “You love me really.”

“I shouldn’t,” Harry scowled.

“Now get off your backside and go dunk your head in cold water, or something.”

Tom watched Harry leave, grumbling, and turned to Ginny. “How have we been friends for years without you correcting my belief that you’re a lesbian?”

“Oh, I am a lesbian, but that doesn’t matter now.”

“What—”

“ _Ginny!_ ” Harry yelled. “My hair needs taming again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wish that we didn’t need to keep up appearances like this.”

_Appearances?_

“What—”

“I’ll just be a minute, okay?” Ginny said, heading towards the bathroom. “I need to help the idiot.”

Tom bit his lip.

“Do you guys want me to wait?” he asked.

No reply.

“Harry?”

Silence.

“Ginny?”

He could hear Ginny and Harry arguing (or rather, Ginny doing Harry’s hair, and Harry whining about it), but none of them seemed to hear him.

“Should I just go home?”

He took their lack of an answer as a yes.

***

“I—” Tom turned towards his angry ball of a cat, sighing. “I just thought Ginny was a lesbian, y’know? And I thought Harry was gay, too.”

“Meow.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter, I should be happy that my friends are getting married.”

Tom scrubbed his hand against his forehead. “I just didn’t notice.”

Volde scratched the sofa impatiently.

“Oh god, is that was this is? Guilt?”

Tom scooped up Volde, tugging his claws away from the sofa. “Am I a terrible friend for not knowing they loved each other?”

The cat stared at him, then licked his lips. “Mrrow.”

“No, it can’t be guilt.” Tom stared at the fireplace, setting Volde down beside him. “Perhaps I’m worried?”

His phone dinged, but Tom shook his head, walking into the kitchen. “They’re my two best friends. We’d always do stuff together.”

He pulled the orange juice out the fridge, frowning at his reflection in the glass. “They’ll leave me behind, now, for their romantic trips. And if I do come—”

He paused, staring at the now-full cup. “I’m going to be a third wheel.”

There was a crash from the living room, and Tom poked his head through to see Volde knocking a vase off of the windowsill and glaring at him.

Oh. Tom had forgotten to feed him.

Picking up his glass and a sachet of cat food, he headed back into the living room, where an extremely impatient sphinx cat _lurked._

Tom got the message quite clearly, thank you very much.

It was only after he’d fed his cat and settled down on the sofa that he remembered he had a message.

_Flaming Ginger: hey tom. where did you go? [12:03]_

_Petite Mort: sorry, didn’t want to bother you. do you need me? [12:18]_

_Flaming Ginger: well we’re out at the moment [12:19]_

_Flaming Ginger: keep an eye on the news ;) [12:19]_

Tom changed the channel.

Ginny had been right – of course she’d been right – and the news was very focused on their favourite celebrities most definitely not being on the case they should be on.

Part of Tom grinned, sharp and jagged, hissing _there are people dying. Couples being murdered. People being heartbroken,_ whilst the other part wondered if Ginny and Harry would be next.

_Petite Mort: you might be next [12:21]_

_Petite Mort: for the, y’know, murderer [12:21]_

He glanced back up at the screen, watching reporters jostle round in the too-bright sunlight, trying to get a picture of the couple dining together.

“And here we have Harry Potter, whose talent for solving crime has taken the internet by storm, dining with the international star, Ginny Weasley, a fiery redhead often seen in his company.”

A thud, and more jostling; Harry and Ginny clinked glasses and took a sip of their wine.

“Now, Neville Longbottom, heartbroken from the death of his bride, asked his _dear friend Harry_ to investigate the murder. Mr. Potter took the case yet seems to be enjoying his time out with Ms. Weasley without a care in the world for his friend or the rising body count.”

Harry said something, eyes sparkling, and Ginny laughed.

The red-haired woman with the microphone briefly came into view of the camera before continuing. “Does this bode well for the success of the case? Is Mr. Potter protecting the kil— oh!”

Her voice was cut off as Harry went down on one knee, a ring box open in his hands. Whilst Tom couldn’t hear what was being said, he could see the way Ginny’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, hands clasped to her mouth in unspoken delight and surprise. Then she was accepting the ring, hands shaking, and then she kissed him.

Tom froze, hand on the remote, transfixed by the pair. It shouldn’t come as a shock to him – he _knew_ they were getting married, after all, but the look of them kissing, looking into each other’s eyes like they were the world—

It hurt.

It _shouldn’t_ have hurt, they were his two best friends, he should be happy for them, but something didn’t sit right.

Why was Ginny surprised, anyway? She knew Harry was proposing. Perhaps it was for the press.

Tom downed his glass of juice before opening a bag of crisps.

“Will Mr. Potter and his fiancée be next for our infamous Wedding Killer?”

He figured he’d probably change the channel before he got too maudlin, thinking about being a third wheel or the end of an era or just feeling lonely, when he saw Ginny reach for her phone and Harry—

Harry grabbed her arm, trying to stop her.

She yanked it away from him, glaring, and checked her phone, typing out a response. Harry snapped something, and she put it away.

Odd.

_Flaming Ginger: don’t you trust us, tom? [12:46]_

Tom changed the channel.

***

Going out the next day was hellish.

Not only did he have the consistent, tugging feeling in his gut, telling him that something was wrong, hurting him (he’d almost say it was jealousy, but why would he be jealous?), but he had every newspaper with shining photos of Lily and James Potter, smiling, delighted for their son, or the Weasley family, all with varying positive responses, Molly Weasley gushing over her daughter, or Ginny herself, in a hastily put together outfit consisting of last night’s jeans and Harry’s shirt, mussed hair and takeaway coffee in both her hands, caught out but smiling all the same.

He couldn’t escape it.

In his mind, he kept seeing Ginny’s startled face, in _Harry’s_ shirt and yesterday’s jeans, the perfect picture of a just-engaged woman who’d spent the night with her fiancé.

Tom did not want to think of his best friends doing _that_.

The paparazzi were looking for him, under the mistaken belief that he was an ‘inside scoop’. Tom was panicking _just as much as they were!_

Which was why he didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved when he got the text.

_Pickled Toad: you up for coming over? [14:48]_

_Pickled Toad: hermione is planning the wedding [14:50]_

_Pickled Toad: as the best man, we thought you might luke to as well [14:51]_

_Pickled Toad: *like [14:51]_

_Petite Mort: yeah i’ll be over in a bit [14:53]_

He slipped out the back of the shop, hoping he wouldn’t get caught up with reporters that he ended up meeting anyway.

“Mr. Riddle!” one of them cried, a tall man with short-shorn hair. “How long have Mr. Potter and Ms. Weasley been a thing?”

“Mr. Riddle!” another yelled. “What’s your opinion on Mr. Potter and Ms. Weasley’s wedding?”

“Mr. Riddle!” the cheaply dyed redhead from the TV called out. “Are you jealous of the Potter-Weasley wedding?”

“Mr. Riddle!”

“Mr. Riddle!”

“Mr. Riddle!”

“Do you—”

“Can you—”

“Tell us—”

“Mr. Riddle!”

“Taxi!” Tom yelled, hoping to get away from the situation. “I’m off to help my friends with wedding prep, _please_.”

Luckily for him, he made it to Harry’s house – to Harry _and_ Ginny’s house – without any trouble, and Hermione welcomed him in with a smile.

“We’re just doing the basics today,” she said. “And quite possibly the invites, because these two are on an extremely short schedule.”

“Tom!” Harry greeted, pulling him into a seat. “What do you think of an August wedding?”

Tom froze. “That’s… that’s in _four months_ , Harry.”

Harry grinned. “I know! I was thinking August the tenth, having it all done by Ginny’s twentieth birthday.”

“Please tell me you want to do a tiny, cute wedding.”

“Please,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “They’re celebrities. They want the biggest and the boldest.”

“We have no budget, either,” Ginny added. “Harry’s a billionaire, I’m a billionaire, why not have the world’s fanciest wedding?”

Tom swapped a glance with Hermione, who had pasted a smile over the stress.

“It’ll probably be fine.” A beat. “We should start with the venue, then?”

They agreed, and then Tom was watching them pour over some of the grandest places he’d ever seen, eyes widening every time he saw a line like _one point two million pounds_.

Christ.

“Oooh, look at this!” Ginny pointed at one of the _more_ expensive ones, which was ridiculous, and she should drop it and _not choose one that costed more than Tom’s entire flat._ “It’s beautiful!”

It wasn’t that Ginny was wrong, exactly, for the building itself looked like something straight out of a fairy tale, and the ballroom had a huge flight of gold-handled, white carpeted stairs, and the floor was shinier than a mirror. It would be the perfect wedding if they had it there, and it was exactly what he’d expect Ginny to choose.

So why did he hate it?

“Oh, the rose marbled floors,” Harry breathed, resting a hand over the photograph. “It’s got large windows too, perfect for letting the light in.”

Hermione laughed, scribbling on her notepad. “I can check it out, but the floorplan works. We could have a diamond chandelier, as you originally wanted, and light, gauzy curtains.”

“What if we covered the staircases in roses?”

“Or what if we put diamonds on the tablecloths?”

Tom was going to cry if he put another thought into how much money that was going to cost them.

“Tom, what do you think?”

He blinked, startled. “Oh, uh, it would certainly seat a lot of people,” he began. “I could text the owners to ask if they have the tenth free?”

“I’m glad you’re still with us,” Ginny teased. “You’ve been remarkably quiet.”

“Ah, yeah, just thinking.”

Tom pulled out his phone, making a show of texting for details.

_Petite Mort: hi there, are you free on the tenth of august this year? we’d like to book it for a wedding [15:42]_

_Wedding Resort: We’re free! Text us your payment details and we can get you sorted :)_

“Here,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, leaving Harry to deal with the rest.

Hermione leant closer to him, whispering, “I’m so glad they picked something quickly. A celebrity wedding in four months? We’re so screwed.”

Tom swallowed, trying not to panic. “Can Ron sort the stag night out?”

“Already asked him. Even he can’t mess that up with four months to prepare.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“Call me that again and I’ll snap your spine,” she said, smiling. “We are going to be so stressed by the end of this.”

Tom nodded, leaning back in as they finished sorting out the venue.

“Tom is the best man, obviously,” Harry said. “Hermione is, presumably, the maid of honour?”

“Of course.”

“Ginny, you said that Luna would be the ring bearer?”

“Yep.”

“Who’re the other bridesmaids?”

Ginny glanced at Hermione, who flicked through her notes.

“I was thinking Cho,” Hermione said, after a couple of seconds. “Maybe Lavender?”

Tom frowned. “You mean Harry’s ex and an airhead?”

“Don’t be mean, Tom,” Hermione frowned, at the same time Ginny said, “You’re right, but they’ll be easy to manipulate.”

He high-fived Ginny without thinking about it.

“Well, bridesmaids are sorted,” Harry said. “What about groomsmen?”

Tom drummed his fingers against the table, glad to find more familiar ground. “Ron? Neville, maybe, if he’s, uh, not still mourning.”

Hermione squinted at her book. “I was thinking Ron could officiate, y’know? Best friend, sibling, etc.”

“Michael and Dean could be the other groomsmen,” Ginny offered. “Two sets of three, nice and equal.”

“More exes?”

“Do it for the drama.”

Tom high-fived her again.

“So, Ron officiates; Tom is the best man; Neville, Dean, and Michael for groomsmen; me, Lavender, and Cho for bridesmaids; what next?”

Was it just Tom, or was Hermione’s hair starting to frizz?

“Well, I figured we could have Fred and George for flower girls,” Ginny said. “They’d love it.”

“And you _know_ Colin would love to be a photographer for something this big,” Harry added.

Tom paused, saw Hermione having a mental breakdown over her notepad, and said, “Invites?”

This was going to be a long day.

***

Tom was all too correct. Once they had a guest list – which had taken hours, even after they’d finished with families, and sorting celebrities into a pile of ‘lesser jerks’ to ‘major jerks’, there were simply _so many_ people – they still had to design the invitations.

They had eventually decided on a cream paper, with a gold heading and black calligraphy. That should’ve taken far less time than it did, but after that, mass producing the invites required manually changing every name before sending each one off.

Tom had done nearly a hundred by himself, and there were four of them.

God.

Tom would like to sleep now. He doubted he’d get much sleep, in these four months, trying to put together a wedding as big as this one.

“Okay,” Hermione muttered. “I think that’s our schedule for the next few months.”

“Shouldn’t the wedding dress go a little earlier?”

Tom knew those were supposed to be big things.

“We have to pay more if we tell them more than six months in advance,” Ginny shrugged. “No difference.”

“Right,” he said. “Are we done for today?”

“I supposed,” Harry sighed. “Can I rope you in for dancing lessons?”

Tom blinked. “I mean, sure, but isn’t it supposed to be a couples thing?”

“Yeah, I guess, but you’re a terrible dancer.”

Tom spluttered.

“Plus, I’d like you to come with me.”

“Oh,” he murmured, after a beat. “I’ll be there.”

Something about Harry’s smile made him feel warm inside, almost gooey. Harry wanted Tom along with him, even though he had Ginny. Tom wasn’t that much of a third wheel.

***

Tom had never felt more like a third wheel in his life.

Dancing was a couple’s thing, like he’d originally thought. Of course he was right. Of course Tom was now left, awkwardly, with the instructor’s instructions and nobody to dance with.

Harry spun by with Ginny, stepping on her foot and getting slapped.

Ouch.

Ginny was usually quite patient with Harry, but he supposed that as they were engaged, they could be more— critical of each other, right?

The instructor offered to dance with him.

Tom was terrible at dancing, always had been, and he could still hear Ginny and Harry arguing in a way they never normally did. He kept glancing over at them and then ruining the whole dance.

The instructor was kind, of course they were, patiently teaching him the steps and not minding when he messed up, but Tom felt horribly guilty.

He was sure the press were having a field day with Ginny’s slaps, anyway.

Tom went home feeling miserable and curled up on the sofa with Volde.

_Google search:_

_do people change when they become a couple_

_how to tell if people are in love_

_is it bad if your best friends are getting married_

_does marriage really change people_

_what to do if you’re a third wheel_

Tom felt worse afterwards and went to bed early. Volde didn’t protest, even when Tom soaked him with tears, and the terrible, twisting sensation in his gut didn’t go away.

He had to be up at six in the morning anyway, they were visiting flower shops.

God, he just wanted Harry and Ginny to be happy, so why did he feel like this?

He’d probably feel better in the morning.

Tom went to sleep.


	2. Points For Trying?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry and ginny shop for flowers, stress out the florists, and tom angsts. also, dancing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. i'm sorry.

The downside to going to sleep late and slightly drunk, Tom discovered, was that waking up due to an alarm was one of the worst things that could happen to him.

He was still tired, the little sleep he’d gained seeming to have no effect on him whatsoever, his head ached, and his eyes were still sticky with last night’s tears. To top it off, light was streaming through the window, blinding him, and there was one angry cat demanding to be fed.

And he had to leave soon, to be on time for flower shopping for his best friends’ wedding.

With a groan, he rolled out of bed.

He knew he’d promised to meet them in time, along with Hermione, because he didn’t want to leave her to deal with the stress by herself, even if she’d been tricked into being the wedding planner for the world’s most stressful wedding, nor did he want to abandon his best friends when they’d asked him to come. He just didn’t particularly feel like going, because everything hurt, and he was tired, and he missed his friends.

Was it possible to miss someone who wasn’t leaving?

Because neither Harry nor Ginny were going anywhere, by all logic, everything would remain the same, except they would be a little more couple-y.

But that’s not how this worked. They were moving on and leaving him behind.

God, he was exhausted.

He stepped into the shower without bothering to remove his pyjamas, icy water shocking him awake. He stayed there, staring at the wall, water streaming down his face – he was _lonely_. Not in the ‘I need someone to love’ way, or the ‘I have no friends’ way, but in the way that his friends felt an arm’s length away at all times.

Tom left the shower, dripping onto the floor as he realised that he’d wandered in here without a towel. He needed to focus.

He changed as quickly as he could, shivering as his wet skin met the cool spring air, glad he had _something_ that seemed smart but not too smart. He’d worked out that going anywhere with Harry and Ginny required something more than t-shirts and jeans.

That had been a few mortifying trips.

Brushed his hair, eaten dry toast for breakfast, fed his grumpy gremlin of a cat, texted Harry and Ginny to say he was on his way, check, check, check, check.

_I should not be approaching my best friends’ wedding prep with the air of a man headed towards his doom,_ Tom mused.

Oh well.

They should count themselves lucky he’d managed to drag himself out of his bed at all.

Their flat was bright and airy, and neither Harry nor Ginny seemed to mind being up so early; a feat which baffled Tom entirely. Surely, they had been up later than he, celebrating their engagement rather than weeping into a cat, yet they seemed completely unaffected by the hour.

Ugh.

“Which flower shop are you buying from?” Tom asked, hoping that the tiredness wouldn’t seep through into his voice.

Ginny glanced up from her phone. “Hm? Oh, we haven’t decided. We thought we’d visit a few.”

Tom blinked, more from fear than from trying to stay awake.

“Y’know, attract attention,” Harry added. “It’s what I’m best at.”

Okay, Tom was _definitely_ scared. They had to visit multiple flower shops, pick the right flowers, whilst the paparazzi stalked them, screaming questions and obliterating lives. If Tom looked tired for even a second, Harry and Ginny could get attacked.

Great.

The doorbell rang, and Hermione entered, smile plastered across her face and hair pulled back into a ponytail that just barely held it. She was dressed in a sharp suit with a clipboard, and she was far more prepared than Tom was. (In his defence, it was ridiculous o’clock in the morning, and he was exhausted and slightly hungover.)

“I’ve narrowed it down to four different shops,” she said, skipping pleasantries entirely. “Downsides are that they’re fairly far apart, and we’ll have to move quickly to visit them all today.”

Tom closed his eyes for a second, already visualising the pain and stress.

“We can skip the lunch,” Harry said, frowning. “There’s really no need to go through all this trouble—”

“Except there _is_ ,” Hermione cut him off. “Me and Tom will subtly interrogate them whilst you have a nice lunch. Try not to look harried, even though we _are_ on a very short time schedule.”

Tom thought of the single piece of plain toast he’d snagged on his way out the house and hoped it would be enough to sustain him through the rest of the day, seeing as he wasn’t to have lunch, apparently.

“Do you guys have water?” Tom asked. “I feel like this will be a very long day if we don’t drink anything.”

“We have a six pack of water bottles we can chuck into the car,” Ginny said, unconcerned. “But I’ve glanced over Hermione’s notes and we need to move quickly.”

“We should take an extra lap at the crossing,” Harry pointed out. “We’ll get more press if they see us more often.”

Hermione’s lips quirked up, and she gestured to the door. “We need to leave _now,_ then.”

The drive was somewhat peaceful, the car one of the comfiest Tom had been in, as he knew how Harry and Ginny liked to splurge, and he was able to close his eyes and get some moments of blissful silence, as though he could restore his rough night in a single journey.

Unfortunately, the reporters were following them like a pack of hungry hounds.

The first flower shop they arrived at was a beautiful one, even Tom could see it. It was wood panelled, with large, glass windows, and many flowers on display. The name was proudly displayed across the front, _Flower Power_ being one of the world’s worst puns for a flower shop.

They pulled up beside the shop, the several journalists doing the same doing nothing for Tom’s mood. The upside was they got inside quickly, and the early hour meant that there was nobody else about.

The florists were remarkably accommodating, smiling as they offered a range of flowers, meanings, and descriptions. They actually managed to boost Tom’s confidence enough to believe that they may be able to leave fairly quickly with a nice array of flowers booked.

He was wrong, of course.

This started with the fact that Harry and Ginny seemed to be going out of their way to be the most difficult, inconvenient couple he’d ever seen. Tom wasn’t judging, of course, seeing as he’d only had one fleeting relationship, and they were his friends, even if they were trapping him in a chokingly fragrant flower shop as they bickered their way into tomorrow’s papers.

Okay, maybe he was being a little harsh.

But they did deserve it. The florist would offer an idea, and they’d shoot it down immediately with a few disparaging remarks, before insulting the florist, the shop, and each other.

“Perhaps the sweet pea?” the poor florist was saying. “Many brides tend to enjoy it—”

“I’m not just any bride, though, am I?” Ginny sniffed.

“—as it looks rather striking by itself or in an arrangement. They work quite well with calla lilies—”

Harry brightened up immediately. “We could use those two! Honour my mum—”

“Your mother will be _at the wedding,_ Harry, what more do you need?” Ginny snapped. “Besides, lilies are funeral flowers. We’re having a _wedding_.”

“Uh, ma’am?” the attendant said.

Harry rolled his eyes. “We don’t actually care. Strike calla lilies off the list.”

She – Susan, her badge said – looked startled, but nodded. “The sweet pea is ruffled, and I think it’s quite romantic, and it comes in a range of colours: pink, purple, and white.”

“God, would that even work with Ginny’s hair?” Harry asked. “Does _anything_ work with red hair?”

Ginny elbowed him, hard, and Tom winced as he heard a camera click.

“Bastard,” she hissed. “My hair is beautiful.”

“It blooms in spring,” Susan continued, nervously. “So, if you were having your wedding in about a year’s time, it would work brilliantly.”

“Oh, spring?” Hermione said. “They’re having an August wedding. A day before Ginny’s twentieth birthday, special dates, and that.”

Susan _choked_. “You’re planning all of this in _four months?_ ”

Hermione rose an eyebrow.

“Uh. Right.” She shuffled some papers, gesturing to her left. “We do, of course, have the daisy, which might be common but it’s incredibly popular for a reason.”

Harry let out a theatrical sigh.

“Um. They bloom all year round, so no matter when you have your wedding, you’ll be able to use these flowers.”

“Did we not just tell you when the wedding was?” Harry said, tone sharp.

“White and yellow wedding palettes work well with daises,” she continued, only to be cut off again by Harry.

“Who says we’re using a white and yellow wedding palette?”

Hermione sighed, stepping forwards. “They’re using pink, yellow, and blue, with occasional hints of white. Your input is greatly appreciated, Ms. Bones.”

How did Hermione even know her surname?

Susan nodded, eyes wide. “In any case, daises come in other colours, too.”

“Forget it,” Ginny said. “We don’t want anything common.”

“What about roses?” Harry countered. “Those are pretty.”

“What part of nothing common don’t you get?”

They devolved into petty bickering, Tom merging as far as he could with the shadows, until petals poked the side of his face and made him sneeze.

Great. That was the _last_ thing he needed right now: a flower allergy. For God’s sake, they were flower shopping! Could the universe not take any pity on him?

Hermione stepped forward, apparently the only one capable there. “Do you have any small, white flowers, Ms. Bones?”

Susan, apparently relieved to not have to deal with the squabbling couple any longer, smiled quite brightly at her. “Yes! Yes, we have baby’s breath, which is a very versatile choice. I’d suggest using it in the flower crown or boutonniere, but you can use it almost anywhere.”

“Oh, thank God,” Hermione said. “I was planning on using it in the cocktail table’s arrangement along with some pink roses, and in the bride’s bouquet.”

“It symbolises purity and innocence, if that helps at all,” Susan added, still smiling. “What else were you going to put in the bouquet?”

“I was thinking pink roses, and something yellow?”

“Oh!” Susan looked quite happy now. “What about carnations? They bloom all throughout the year and are often known as a filler flower, they come in many colours – look, these ones are the carnations.”

She pulled out a selection of brightly coloured, frilly flowers, and Tom came over to look, sneezing.

“Hello, Tom,” Hermione said. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Do you think these would work in a bouquet?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak without sneezing.

Hermione smiled. “These will be it, then. Could you arrange the flowers for the groom’s boutonniere and bride’s bouquet?”

“Of course.”

Relieved to be in certain waters, Susan busied the paperwork for Hermione to fill out whilst Ginny and Harry had started full out yelling, fury burning in their eyes and venom pouring out their mouths.

If that was what happened to friends when they became a couple, Tom was glad his singular relationship hadn’t worked out.

“Fuck it,” Ginny said. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

And then, she rammed him up against the wall and kissed him.

Kissing was the wrong word for this. Snogging the life out of him might’ve been better, or canoodling, even. Regardless of this, Ginny and Harry were now making out, and they seemed to have forgotten their earlier fight.

At least the press was enjoying the spectacle.

Tom felt a hot burn of possessiveness bubble up inside of him, and he glared at the sea of camera flashes. These were his friends, not their ticket to the front page.

They broke apart, Ginny looking flushed and Harry’s hair out of place, a smudge of lipstick on his cheek.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

Ginny just grinned.

***

They left the first flower shop and headed to the second, an uptown modern front with funky letters claiming _Flowergenics_ , which was almost as bad as the first one.

Harry had yet to wipe the pink smear off his face. Which was fine, of course. Whatever. Tom wasn’t getting irritated by it at all. It was his choice. His face. His fiancée.

The florist at this shop was a smiley girl with large, square glasses.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Myrtle Warren. How can I help?”

“By getting us flowers for our wedding, obviously.”

Myrtle flinched. “Oh. Of course. Sorry.”

“Well?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “We’re waiting.”

Myrtle fumbled with her clipboard, before stammering, “Uh, well, there’s always the classic rose! Of course, people normally get red ones, uh, a symbol of love and purity. But! They are available in all colours, all year round, traditional, even, and they work well with almost everything!”

“God,” Harry said. “Don’t those have, like, thorns? We don’t want to get _pricked_ on our _wedding day_. Everything has to be perfect; don’t you understand?”

Nodding, she added, “We can do thornless stems! I completely understand not wanting to risk the chance of getting cut at your own wedding.”

“Ugh. I doubt we’ll even need roses. Next?”

“Well- uh, we also have peonies!”

Harry rolled his eyes, and Ginny said, “Those sound terrible, but go ahead.”

“They- they’re best for spring or summer weddings, and they come in a variety of colours.” Myrtle stopped, trying to gauge their reaction, only to realise they were barely paying attention at all. “They, uh, have large petals, and work well with cream colours, and they look romantic.”

“You’re so stupid, you know?” Harry said. “Always trying to impress with useless facts. Just give us the most expensive flowers and shut the hell up.”

One of the paparazzi _gasped_ , and Tom could see Myrtle Warren’s eyes fill up with tears. Why on Earth had Harry said that?

“Now, Harry,” Ginny sneered. “Don’t be rude. I’m sure she’s trying her hardest in her minimum wage job.”

“And yet she somehow manages to look prettier than you.”

“What did you say to me, Harry Potter?”

“I said that this florist is prettier than you.”

There was a sharp slap, and Tom averted his eyes.

He looked at the florist desperately, searching for something to say. “Could I smell the peonies?”

She sniffled, nodding. “Here.”

Tom sneezed and apologised immediately.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and sneezed again. “I- uh—”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Myrtle said, removing the peonies from his vicinity. “I- oh god.”

Hermione, once again, stepped forwards. “Would it be possible to get white, light pink, and dark pink peonies for the chair decorations?”

“Yes, yes of course.”

“Thank you, Ms. Warren. Also, are pink roses available?”

“Yes!” she said, as brightly as she could, considering the circumstances. “That we can do.”

“Okay,” Hermione smiled at her. “I was thinking about one hundred roses for either side of the staircase handles, here—” she gestured at the photo. “And likewise for the outside. It would be about four hundred by that point, and then I figured we could also use them in the centrepiece, alter, entryway, and at the bar.”

Myrtle stared at her on horror. “You need- we could barely get that in time for a _year_ , let alone _August!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, looking down. “Could you manage it without the staircase and entryway?”

“I-” Myrtle took a breath. “We can manage the peonies, the arch, alter, centrepiece, and bar at a stretch. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to somewhere else for the, uh, four hundred odd roses.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, offering her a grateful smile. “This wedding is a lot of stress for me.”

Myrtle side-eyed the still arguing couple, nodding.

“Why am I even marrying you?” Ginny screamed, nails digging into Harry’s arm. “Do you even care about me at _all?_ ”

“Me? _Me_ not caring? You literally sit around on your phone all day!”

“I swear down you’re just doing this for the publicity you horrible, horrible man—”

Ginny broke off, and Tom glanced up to see if she was okay, only to regret it as he saw Harry kissing her, holding her by the wrist away from the sensitive flesh of his arms. Cameras flashed, and Tom felt sick.

Hermione brushed past him. “Time to go!”

He was more than glad to leave the sickeningly humid atmosphere of the shop and climb back in the car, Ginny as Harry soon following, straightening themselves up.

“I feel horrible,” Ginny said.

Harry nodded. “Me too. We did tip them extravagantly, didn’t we?”

“Yep.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” Ginny said, relieved.

Harry turned to Tom. “I’m so sorry you have to come along to this when you’re, y’know, allergic.”

“It’s okay,” Tom murmured, almost in a daze.

“I’m glad,” Harry said, wry smile in place. “This is Hell.”

Tom nodded, mute.

Ginny poked Harry as gently as she could. “Are you okay? I know my nails are sharp, and that it was necessary and all, but I don’t actually want you hurt.”

Harry turned his wrists over, revealing some red marks and a few shallow cuts. “Nothing too bad, at least.”

Hermione pulled up outside of the restaurant that Ginny and Harry were booked into, and they climbed out, waving at them as they went.

“Where are we going now?” Tom asked, as Hermione started driving once more.

“Another flower shop, just to see if they can get the roses we need, or I’ll have to replan the entire wedding.”

They spent most of the ride in an exhausted silence, Tom’s stomach rumbling even as he sipped some water. It wasn’t quite food, but close enough, right?

The flower shop they arrived at wasn’t as fancy as some of the others, neither was it filled with humid flowers, and the vultures – reporters – had stayed with the restaurant, presumably to get photos of Harry and Ginny eating. Which would be weird if they weren’t celebrities, but whatever.

It was calm, peaceful, even, inside the shop, and Hermione did look a little sheepish when asking for enough roses to fill two handrails, plus the entrance, where she was going to erect handrails to look good, and to cover in more roses. This wedding gig wasn’t going great for anyone, by the looks of it.

“Also, can you do pink and yellow roses for the bride’s flower crown?” she added.

The florist in charge looked at her in disbelief but said they could have the roses delivered in time. Hermione went near catatonic with relief, ushering him back to the car.

Tom glanced as his phone, watching the live video of Ginny throwing her champagne glass in Harry face and Harry storming off, shoving past several waiters as he did so, dishes clattering to the ground.

He closed his eyes. Everything seemed to be happening so quickly, and Tom had no idea what was going on, and he was tired and hungry and would really like to go home now.

Except he promised his best friends he’d be there for them, and so he would.

Dammit.

It was nearing two o’clock when they picked the pair back up, and they both collapsed into the car like they’d just given the performance of their life rather than eaten dinner and gotten a little angry.

Tom remembered the champagne glass and reconfigured the facts. They may as well have been performing, with the act they put on.

The third shop barely registered in Tom’s brain, and he blearily stumbled into it, realising that they had to deal with journalists again.

“Okay,” Hermione said, addressing the young boy who had stepped forward to greet them. “We’d like to move as quickly as possible, Mr. MacMillan. Show us what you have for weddings. This is our third shop.”

Ernie, as his badge claimed, blinked, before agreeing. “I’ll assume you want to skip past the usual roses and such,” he began.

“Yep, been there, fought over that,” Ginny said, waving her hand. “Get on with it.”

He blinked. “Okay, well, there’s the calla lily, which is fairly sleek and modern looking. I don’t have one on me to show you at the moment, but it’s sleek and modern looking, and would make quite the bold statement. I’d suggest putting it in a tall vase, with a creamy colour for a summer wedding and a dark purple for a winter one.”

“Oh my god,” Ginny uttered, voice flat but still conveying her irritation. “You’re actually considering it. Like I said last time, lilies are funeral flowers. No.”

“But my mum—”

“Lily will be happy to be invited! No need to add mournful flowers just because they happen to share a name.”

“Fine. Next, please?” Harry directed the last of his questions towards Ernie.

“Um. Well, if you’re looking for something more exotic, we can always offer a succulent. It’s available all year round, and, whilst not the traditional piece, it definitely would add flare to the wedding. They’re heat resistant, and easy to maintain, so you really don’t have to worry—”

“I’m sorry, those aren’t even flowers, right?” Ginny demanded. “You’re so shit at your job, you know that, right? Completely incompetent. Why would you offer me a fucking succulent when I need flowers for my wedding?”

“Ginny,” Harry hissed, grabbing her arms, and trying to pull her into control. “Please just let him do his job.”

“Oh, not you too.” She thrashed in his grip, trying to get a proper punch in, managing to snag one of the displays and pull it down as she did so.

“Excuse me— ma’am—” The shop attendant looked horrified, trying to put thing back in their rightful place.

“Ginny—”

Ginny stopped fighting and kissed him instead, before bursting into tears.

“You never listen to my opinion on anything!” she sobbed. “Would it kill you just to listen to me for once?”

“Listen— Ginny, I’m sorry— please!” Harry yelled after her, but she stormed into the car and slammed the door.

Harry sighed, looking helplessly at Ernie. “I’m sorry, but women, am I right?”

“Um. Mr. Potter,” he said, sounding slightly strangled.

“They’re all hysterical. Look, I’ll try and calm her down, you just talk to Tom and my wedding planner over there.” He waved vaguely in Hermione’s direction before hurrying out after his fiancée.

Hermione rolled her eyes, checking her plan. “I suppose I could always try white roses.”

She tapped Ernie on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. MacMillan, would you be able to produce a bed of white roses for the cake, white roses for the aisle decorations, and also white roses to mix with the pink at the bar?”

“Oh, of course!” Ernie held out a form. “Anything else you would like, Miss?”

“Well, I ordered some yellow carnations for something earlier, and I thought they’d fit quite nicely on the entrance arch and in the centrepiece, and then I wondered if I should add them to the alter too.”

“Oh, we could do that, Miss!”

Hermione smiled, weariness showing in her eyes as she filled in the right order forms.

Arriving back at the car had Harry apologising profusely to Hermione for his vague dismissal, and she waved him off.

“You have to do what you have to do. It’s fine.”

And that was the end of that.

The final flower shop had more reporters outside than before, and Harry looked at Ginny.

“Should I…?”

“Yes.”

Whatever _that_ meant, some kind of communication had gone on, and a plan was created.

They went inside the flower shop all smiles, well, on Harry’s half. Ginny wore a slightly disgruntled look, almost giving Harry the cold shoulder entirely as he tried to sling his arm over her shoulder.

“Hello, sir, ma’am,” the aging woman said. “I’m Pomona Sprout. How may I help?”

“Oh, we’re looking for wedding flowers,” Harry replied. “Would you mind telling me about them?”

Pomona brightened considerably, gesturing at her long range of flowers. “I thought you might like to start with the hydrangeas. They usually come in pink or white but there are many colours, and the petals are heart shaped, too.”

She offered one to Ginny, who glared at the floor until Harry awkwardly took it, attempting to tuck it behind Ginny’s ear, only for Ginny to move out of the way last second.

“Because they’re so big, you only need a few of the blooms to fit in, it can go on the centrepiece, if you like, or—”

Hermione cut her off. “Do you do it in blue?”

“Of course!”

“I was thinking it’d be perfect in the bridesmaid’s bouquet, and in the centrepiece and aisle decorations. I was also wondering if we could get it for the flower girls’ petal baskets?”

Pomona smiled at her. “That sounds easily doable.” Turning back to Harry and Ginny, she said, “Would you like to continue touring the flowers?”

Harry beamed right back. “Yes please!”

Ginny scowled, tugging her arm away from him. “If we must.”

Pomona glanced between them, raising an eyebrow, and Harry offered her a mournful look.

“Right,” she said. “Tulips are our next option. They’re native to Eurasia and North America, and they’re related to lilies. People are fairly good at recognising them, too, and they look best in spring—”

“We’re having a summer wedding,” Ginny snapped.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry added. “I’d love to hear more about tulips—”

“No, no,” Pomona smiled, “We’ve got plenty more flowers to choose from. No need to spare my feelings.”

Ginny stepped on Harry’s foot as Pomona led them over to a display at the corner of the shop.

“Gardenia, native to Asia, but imported over here. They represent elegance and grace, you see, and they look good in summer weddings. They also have no stem and work well as a hair decoration.”

“Oh, it’d look beautiful in Ginny’s hair!” Harry exclaimed. “May we try one?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to try it?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Ginny.”

Pomona cleared her throat. “Next we have the ranunculus. It’s good for spring, summer, or autumnal weddings, and comes in pink, orange, and red. It looks good with almost anything.”

“That sounds great. What do you think, Ginny?”

“Just show us the next one already.”

“Orchids look best in the bridal bouquet,” she said. “They symbolise beauty and refinement—”

“Next.”

“Dahlias are similar to the peony or the hydrangea, with charm and sophistication in the round petals ending in a point here, you see, and they work well in any colour and best in summer.”

Harry offered Ginny an award-winning smile, only for her to not even look up from her phone.

“Ginny?”

“Let Hermione pick. She’s doing the planning, after all.”

Hermione nodded, hurrying over. “Okay, so I figured we could round off the bridesmaid’s bouquet with some peach roses and add some blue forget-me-nots to the alter.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Then it’s just the groom’s boutonniere to sort out.”

“What were you thinking?” Pomona asked.

“Maybe freesia, azalea, and myosotis? I don’t know if it’ll work, but…”

“I’m sure it’ll look great. I’ll add it to your order.”

Pomona walked past Harry and Ginny, offering him another questioning look as Ginny ignored him entirely.

“I think she knows,” Harry sighed. “I’m so sorry, Ginny, it was just one night—”

“I’m not interested.”

Tom choked on thin air. Did Harry—?

Pomona’s face was spectacular, to say the least.

“I think we should leave now.”

And leave they did, but Tom couldn’t help hissing, “Did you cheat on Ginny?”

It was only afterwards that he remembered the press and their cameras, hungry smiles as they scribbled on their notepads. The press who had now just heard Tom ask if Harry had cheated on Ginny. Fuck.

They piled into the car, and Harry and Ginny burst out laughing.

“Her _face—”_

“Oh, Tom, that was brilliant. Thank you for that.”

Tom just forced a smile onto his face, stomach rumbling, and wondered if he’d get back home before nine.

***

Tom did, in fact, make it home by nine, if only just. He was immediately greeted by a sharp ball of hungry cat, who he promptly fed and allowed to curl up on his lap as he fed himself yet more plain toast, because he was far too tired to make himself a proper meal.

He loved Harry and Ginny, he really did, but he barely understood them as a couple. When they were inside, they acted no different, and then when outside, they swung violently between personalities, attacking each other and everyone else quite efficiently.

What was going on?

He’d barely slept since the first announcement, and his headache this morning had told him what a bad idea it was to try and drink his thoughts away. The dance lessons of tomorrow would presumably need a nice, clear head, and Tom couldn’t risk making a fool of himself in a sport – did dance count as sport? – he was already terrible at.

He flipped briefly through newspaper articles and videos of Harry and Ginny fighting and kissing, before throwing his phone across the room and screwing his eyes shut.

That was it. He was going to sleep.

***

The dance lessons were worse than Tom imagined, considering he’d already been to one.

Last time it’d just been the instructor – whose name was Minerva McGonagall, apparently – him, Harry, and Ginny.

Today there was an actual class, full of couples, and Tom stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Mr. Riddle, yes?” McGonagall asked.

“Uh, yes. Please just call me Tom.”

“Then call me Minerva. You can be my partner for the night, so I can show everyone the steps.”

Tom reluctantly took her hand, allowing her to guide him through the steps of the waltz, albeit probably as awkwardly as possible, with him trying not to step on her toes but also keep up.

“One-two-three—”

Tom nearly slid down to his knees, only the quick thinking of Minerva keeping him upright.

“Why don’t we take a break?”

Oh, thank god. Tom sat himself down on a ledge, tucked away from everyone else, as Harry and Ginny came to join him.

“Turns out Harry is _terrible_ at dancing,” she said, grinning. “My poor bruises have bruises.”

“I wasn’t _that_ bad,” he defended himself, lips twitching as he supressed a smile.

Ginny shook her head, laughing, giving Tom a quick hug before returning to the floor, dragging her fiancé with her.

Tom just watched, exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my chapters, growing longer and longer: hello, trixie. you've met your match.

**Author's Note:**

> You could... poke your head into my [Discord server](https://discord.gg/37bXdGW)? I don't bite (much)!
> 
> Alternately, you could pop into my mess of a Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46.tumblr.com/), or my writing Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46butwriteblr.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain me :)


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